


The Captain of Guards

by FictionalExcrement



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionalExcrement/pseuds/FictionalExcrement
Summary: My take at a TWoW chapter in which Doran gets the news about his son Quentyn





	The Captain of Guards

The tidings came to Dorne by way of ship. With winter nigh upon them, the day was cold. A gusty north wind blew through the Water Gardens. The once ever-present Dornish sun was hidden behind a blanket of unyielding clouds. Doran Martell sat in his rolling chair under the orange tree, his swollen and gouty legs covered by a thick Myrish blanket, looking out onto the empty pools of the Water Gardens. The children that played there every day had been driven indoors by the cold. Yet still, his prince sat, his eyes transfixed onto the pools and the cloudy horizon beyond. The Captain knew something was awry this morning. The past few days had been cloudy, but never like this. The blue of the sky could not be seen anywhere, only the grey of the clouds, gloomy and foreboding.

At noon, the Captain had been told that Gerris Drinkwater and the big knight Archibald Yronwood had arrived at the Water Gardens with a large chest. Of its contents, Areo Hotah did not know. Or perhaps he did not want to know. He had told his prince such, as soon as he could. He went up to the terrace, where he knew his prince would be. “My prince, forgive me for the intrusion, but there is something you must hear,” the Captain had said. Doran Martell looked back slightly from his rolling chair. “Come, Captain,” he said. Hotah walked up to the prince to stand in front of him, his boots ringing on the pale pink marble. He thumped the floor with the butt of his axe to announce his presence, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. “My prince, Gerris Drinkwater and Archibald Yronwood have arrived from Sunspear. They request an audience with you,” Hotah said. Several minutes passed, but Doran Martell gave him no reply, nor commands. He only sat. A few moments later he looked up at Hotah. His eyes were red and tired, the Captain saw, and he could see tears glistening in them. “Quentyn?” he asked, so softly that it was a whisper. The Captain shook his head. “He . . . ” Hotah hesitated, “He is not with them, my prince,” he said. Prince Doran nodded. _I should tell him_ , Hotah thought. He cleared his throat, “My prince, they have something with them,” said Hotah. “A . . .” he hesitated again. “A large chest,” he said. Prince Doran nodded again, weakly. Hotah could see a tear roll down his cheek. “That will be all, Captain,” Prince Doran said, his voice hoarse. “I will send for you.”

Hours had passed since then. The sky was darkening, and the sun was setting behind the clouds, unseen. Areo Hotah stood by the doorway of the terrace, his longaxe slung across his back. A blood orange fell from the tree to burst open on the marble floor, its juice oozing out.

The last light of day was going out when the prince said looked back from his rolling chair and said, “I will see them now, Captain.”

Areo Hotah thumped the butt of his longaxe on the floor, acknowledging the command. “Aye, my prince,” he said. He turned on his heels, and was halfway out the door before Prince Doran called out again, “Hotah,” he said.

The Captain turned, “Yes, my prince?” he asked.

“Tell them to bring the…” the prince hesitated, trailing off. “The chest,” he said a few moments later, his voice soft.

“Aye,” Hotah said.

Areo Hotah led Gerris Drinkwater and Archibald Yronwood through the halls of the Water Gardens, up to the terrace. The Captain walked beside the two knights. They carried the chest in between them, Yronwood holding one bright silver clasp, and Drinkwater holding the other. The chest was intricately carved, Hotah saw. A lavishly carved box of dark brown oaken wood, polished to a bright sheen. The front of the box displayed the sigil of House Martell – a sun pierced by a spear – carved in bright beaten gold. As beautiful as the box was, Hotah felt his unease rising with each step. The two Dornish knights felt the same, he suspected. The big knight was ill at ease as he walked, Hotah noted, and he didn’t think it was due to the weight of the box. Yronwood overtopped even Hotah by half an inch, broad of shoulder and huge of belly. His arms and legs were thick as tree trunks and corded with muscle. He looked a capable warrior. If it came to arms, Hotah wasn’t convinced he could take the big knight down without injuries of his own. Yronwood wore a simple cream colored tunic, the sigil of House Yronwood – a black portcullis over a sandy field – embroidered on his left breast. Summer garb, truly, but Yronwood’s bald head was beaded with sweat even still.

Gerris Drinkwater, on Yronwood’s right, wore a simple white tunic, trimmed with golden thread, his sand-streaked hair flowing as he walked. Drinkwater seemed to be in a black mood, Hotah observed. His face was hard, his lips a hard set line. He had demanded – with some heat – to see the prince when first arrived at noon, but had been told by Hotah that he must needs wait. “Wait?” Drinkwater had protested, “We have been waiting since we set sail from thrice cursed Slaver’s Bay! Take us to him,” he bellowed loudly.

“Drink!” Yronwood said, taking Drinkwater’s arm. “The Prince will see us when he will he us. _Sit down_ , you bloody fool,” he said. But Drinkwater had only freed himself from Yronwood’s grip to barge outside.  
Yronwood sighed, turning to Hotah. “Forgive him, if you would, Areo,” he said. “A boy despite his years, that one. He needs some fresh air, is all.” Hotah nodded, understanding. He could sympathize with Drinkwater. Hotah knew the prince he served, and had grown accustomed to his passive nature. Doran Martell had never been confrontational man, Hotah knew. He had always preferred to wait as long as he could before facing something. And this time was no different.

Hotah led them into the terrace. Prince Doran still sat under the orange tree, looking out onto the pools. The only illumination in the room came from a candle by the prince’s bed. No stars could be seen in the sky. The clouds had taken all the color out of the world, it seemed to Hotah. Everything in the chambers was outlined by the blue of the night.  
He stepped into the room and stood, thumping the butt of his longaxe on the floor. “My prince, may I present Gerris Drinkwater and Archibald Yronwood,” Hotah said, his voice thick with his Norvosi accent.  
“Take me inside, if you would, Captain,” Prince Doran said, quietly. Hotah moved to obey. He took the handles of the rolling chair, taking care to move slowly, so as not to hurt his prince’s joints. He rolled Prince Doran inside, stopping by the foot of the bed. Yronwood and Drinkwater were still at the doorway. They had set the chest down by the side of the doorway, Hotah saw. They moved together towards the prince, taking a knee in front of him. Hotah moved to stand beside his prince.

“Prince Doran,” Archibald Yronwood said solemnly. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, Archibald,” the prince said, though his eyes were set on the chest by the door, Hotah saw.

A few moments passed. “Stand, both of you,” the prince said. Yronwood and Drinkwater both stood. Hotah observed both of their faces. Yronwood had his eyes set on the floor, as if he would sooner walk on hot coals than look his prince in the eyes. Drinkwater’s face was stone, giving nothing away.

A few moments of strained silence passed. Yronwood cleared his throat. “Prince Doran. . .” he tried to speak, but had trouble finding the words, it seemed to Hotah. Yronwood looked up from the floor to meet the prince’s eyes. “We arrived too late, my Prince . . .” he hesitated, as if every word were an arrow he feared to loose. “She refused Quent. Refused the marriage pact . . . and told us to return to Dorne,” Yronwood said, looking at the floor again.

Gerris Drinkwater could no longer hold his silence. He met the prince’s eyes. His own blue-green eyes looked as black as the clouds, angry tears glistening in them. “The dragon queen laughed in his face,” Drinkwater said coldly. “She laughed in his face, and went off to fuck her sellsword captain and take a Meereenese slaver for her king,” he said, louder. Yronwood looked at Drinkwater. “Drink, don’t-” he began, but Drinkwater bulled right over him. “I told him it was folly. I told him we ought to take ship and go back,” Drinkwater continued, “Gods, even Barristan the Bold told us to run,” he let out a bitter laugh, an angry tear rolling down his cheek. He wiped away the tear quickly, “But no, he would not have it. ’This is what I have to do,’ he told me. ‘For Dorne, for my father. For Cletus, Will, and Maester Kedry,’ he said. As if that folly could bring them back,” he looked out onto the horizon, an angry and pained expression on his face.

Yronwood looked back at the prince, as if to explain. “We lost them too,” he said, his voice was solemn, but every word seemed to pain him, Hotah observed. “Some bloody corsairs swarmed our ship off the coast of the Disputed Lands,” Yronwood made a fist. “Gods curse them.”

The prince looked up at the big man. Hotah did not like what he saw in his prince’s eyes. Over the years he had served Doran Martell, Hotah had seen many things in his eyes. Sorrow, grief, anger. He had seen hope there, had even glimpsed happiness, and laughter once in a while. But this time, Hotah did not know what he saw. Prince Doran’s eyes were empty, but for the tears.

“What of my son, Archibald?” the prince asked the big knight, his voice was hollow and thick with pain. Gerris Drinkwater turned around, walking slowly towards the door. Hotah thought he meant to leave, but he only stood near the chest.

The big knight sighed, looked at the floor, then back at the prince.

“When Daenerys Targaryen wed the Meereenese nobleman, she allowed the Meereenese to reopen their accursed fighting pits, in honor of their union,” Yronwood said. “We were there. Drink, and me and Quent . . .

“The screaming and the smell of blood led him to the pit, I expect,” he continued. “A fearsome creature it was, huge, with scales black as night, and eyes like pits of molten fire, like Balerion of old. Drogon, he was called,” the big man shuddered. “A wonder we got out of there alive. Two hundred men died that day, or near enough. The beast flew off with the silver queen on its back, men say. That was the last we saw o’ her.

“After that - with the silver queen gone - Quent . . .” Yronwood hesitated, “Fool boy that he was . . . he hatched a plan to steal one of her two other dragons. ‘For Dorne,’ he said,” Yronwood shook his head. “The two smaller beasts she kept chained up in one o’ the fighting pits, as it were. Minute we got in there though, we knew none of it would work. Aye, and smaller they were, but no less wild. Quent, he . . . he told us he could cow the beast with a whip, like the dragon queen had done in the pit. ‘I have Targaryen blood in me,’ he said. Going on about his lineage,” Yronwood grimaced, his mouth twisted in a wince of pain. “Small good his lineage did him . . . “

Yronwood looked back at the prince. “We told him not to . . . told him it was folly,” he said. Hotah glanced at Prince Doran, he looked grief-stricken, but remained unmoved.

“I would hear the rest,” Prince Doran said, weakly.

The big knight winced again, but continued. “He was trying to cow the white dragon, Viserion, when the green beast came up behind him. Gerris and me, we both screamed, telling him to move, but he . . . he heard too late,” a tear ran down the big man’s broad face. “’Fore I knew it, he was covered in those ghastly green flames. Foolish boy . . .” he big knight looked down at his bandaged hands. “I tried to save him, Doran. Gods know I did,” Yronwood turned away. Prince Doran’s closed his eyes as a tear ran down his face. 

“Aye, the green one. Rhaegal, it was. A cruel jape, that,” the big man said wiping away his tears. The room seemed to darken, Hotah felt. He glanced at the bedside table to see that the candle had guttered out. Gerris Drinkwater had left. When he did, Hotah could not say.

 _Fire is cruel way to die, Hotah thought. And dragonflame worse._ Hotah had not known Quentyn Martell as well as he might have. He had seen the boy many times during his time as Prince Doran’s Captain of Guards, but had never known him. Even still, Hotah felt a deep sadness, hearing these tidings. Even as a young boy, Quentyn Martell had reminded Areo very much of Prince Doran. A short, stocky and bookish lad with a square face; he had been eight years old when Prince Doran sent him off to be fostered by Lord Anders Yronwood.

Several moments passed before Prince Doran opened his reddened eyes. 

“That will be all, Archibald,” the prince said blankly. “Captain, if you would be so good as to see our guest out.”

Hotah hesitated for half a heartbeat, not certain what to do. _Serve, protect, obey._

The big knight turned back to look at the prince, a look of grief on his broad face. He stepped forward towards the prince, “Prince Doran . . .” he began, before Hotah stepped between him and his prince.  
“Ser Archibald,” Hotah said, “If you would follow me.”

After escorting Archibald Yronwood back to his chambers, Areo returned to the terrace. Prince Doran had not moved, Hotah saw. That worried at Areo more than he could say. A sudden sense of grief washed over Hotah. _He has lost too much_ , the Captain thought, sadly.

He stepped into the dark room; the dark blue of the night sky outlined everything. “Prince Doran,” Hotah began, “If you would excuse my saying, it would be best if you slept. It is late.”  
After a few moments, Prince Doran nodded.

Hotah moved to obey. He lifted the prince up from his rolling chair and into the bed, slowly, taking care not to jar his swollen joints. Hotah lifted the coverlets up to cover the prince.  
“My prince,” he said. “Shall I send for Maester Caleotte to bring the milk of the poppy?”

“No, Captain,” the prince murmured, his voice small. “Just leave me.” 

In the moonlight, Hotah could see tears on glistening Doran Martell’s cheeks as he closed his eyes. 

Areo felt a deep sadness as he left his prince’s chambers. _There is no milk for such pain as that_ , he reflected with sorrow.


End file.
